


Of Louts and Men

by Jajwok



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: ASoIaF, Alternative Universe - Canon, Canon - Book, Canon-Typical Violence, Deception, Eventual Smut, F/M, Female Friendship, Grooming, Intrigue, Light Angst, Masturbation, Minor Canonical Character(s), Misunderstandings, POV Sandor Clegane, POV Sansa Stark, Romance, Sexual Content, Sexual Humor, Slow Build, Spoilers for Book 4 - A Feast for Crows, Spoilers for Book 6 - The Winds of Winter, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-24
Updated: 2018-05-22
Packaged: 2019-04-27 10:09:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14423148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jajwok/pseuds/Jajwok
Summary: Alayne Stone is still trying to keep her real identity hidden while learning how to play the game of thrones from her "father". Littlefinger has plans with her but fails to realize he isn't the only one in the Vale with a secret agenda regarding the young woman ...





	1. Byron

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Shadrich, Morgarth and Byron - Three Hedge Knights: Howland Reed, Elder Brother, and Sandor Clegane](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/374808) by The Blue-Eyed Wolf. 



> The story starts right after/with the events in the released sample chapter "Alayne". A new POV character provides a different perspective on things.
> 
> I tried to write this fic as canon-compliant as possible.  
> The first chapter is supposed to mirror Alayne's sample chapter, so there will be a lot of similarities. 
> 
> Please be kind, as this is my first fanfic EVER and I'm not a native english-speaker. I did try my best with grammar and vocabulary but I didn't have anyone to edit or beta read. Constructive criticism and comments are very welcome.
> 
> This is also a shout-out to Blue_Lemons who wrote the wonderful meta on Shadrich, Morgarth and Byron that inspired me to write this fic. Only after I had started my work, did I find Blue_Lemon's fantastic fic "Bones and Rubies" (I'm obviously a total newbie ;D).
> 
> DISCLAIMER: All characters belong to George R.R. Martin and his brilliant A Song of Ice & Fire Series. I claim no ownership to any of this.
> 
> Hope you enjoy this!

He still couldn’t believe they had found her.

The big blonde knight was standing beneath one of the few trees in the yard honing his sword. From there he had the perfect view over every person and thing around, especially the supposed natural daughter of the Lord Protector of the Vale. The initial plan after arriving at the Gates of the Moon several moons ago had been for Ser Byron to win the girl over with his blonde hair, blue eyes, and handsome face – a maiden’s very dream come true. Alas, Alayne didn’t seem to pay him any mind at all. She clearly hadn’t recognized him when he was first introduced to her. Even when he had kissed her hand to verify her identity to his comrades, she hadn’t so much as glanced at him quickly. Whenever chance brought them together afterwards, she would regard him with empty courtesies before leaving him behind rather quickly. That way at least, they knew the glamour the Mad Mouse had placed on him to be working. _Would she even care if it was me?_

Just the day before, she had bumped into him by accident. He had instinctively grabbed her arm to steady her. The sudden encounter had clearly taken the girl by surprise. When she had looked up to face him, there had seemed to be a longing look in her eyes that had faded quickly, as if she had hoped for someone other than him. Somehow, she regarded Byron’s face even less than she had Sandor Clegane’s horribly scarred one. _But isn’t this face more to her liking?_ he thought irritated. Since the girl hadn’t taken the bait of the gallantry he presented, they had had no other choice but to change plans. Since then, Byron had resorted to being a shadow, watching for signs and ways to win her over at last.

Alayne was wandering the yard looking for the Lord Protector. _She looks different_. He didn’t mean her darker hair and plain attire. Every single line of her face was etched into his memory, her voice was singing to him every night and the very way she carried herself was unique – he would have known her in whatever disguise Littlefinger might have come up with. Who would have known he would choose to hide the girl in plain sight, though. _Even her natural coloring has started showing again_ , he observed as the sun light kissed her hair. But something about her had changed.

News travelled slowly these days, with outlaws and wars pestering peasants, travelers and birds alike. Accordingly, news reaching the Quiet Isle had been scarce and often weeks, if not months, behind. And the Elder Brother had only shared what he had deemed necessary with his fellow brothers. Even so, they had heard of people like the big ugly wench and her companions searching the land for the escaped Lady Stark. The bounty Queen Cersei had placed on her pretty head was enough to have even the biggest cowards walk into all Seven Hells readily.

He remembered it like it was just yesterday when he had learned that his little bird had used those pretty wings of hers to fly out of the capital. Supposedly, after poisoning the little shit Joffrey at his wedding feast. _That girl killed no one,_ he thought grimly. _Her head is full of knights and fucking chivalry_. Though, even if she had had a hand in Joffrey’s demise, he of all people knew bloody well the boy king had deserved it.

Still, it was more likely the girl was being framed for something someone else had done – maybe Tyrion Lannister. _Her husband …_ The thought sent a stab of pain through his chest, his heart cramping hard. He tasted bile at the back of his throat in a sudden flash of rage. _After all the Lannisters have done to her, they dared to marry off that sweet child to the twisted gargoyle that is the Imp_. His rage was almost palpable.

 _I should have taken her_ , he realized he had been clenching his hands tightly. _But I left … I left her for the Imp, and now Littlefinger_. Was he any better than the Lannisters who had caused her so much pain, though? He had been their loyal dog after all, obeying their commands without questioning. _I never beat her_ , he almost shouted. Not even Joffrey could have made him do that. _But I left her without protection and see what came of it_. He didn’t even want to imagine what the Imp had done to her. “Seven bloody hells,” he wiped the wetness from his face. Suddenly, he had a thirst. A strong red vintage would be fucking welcome. He hadn’t had a drink ever since that god-forsaken day at the inn. A smile crept up his lips when he imagined how the little she-bitch would take the news of his survival. _If she is still alive_ , the smile dried up quickly.

Tempting as a good drink was, the images of the little bird’s scared face still haunted him. _Gentle Mother, font of mercy …_ Piss-drunk as he had been, he had forsaken every chance of her agreeing to leave with him. That was a mistake he wasn’t planning on repeating. _Had she gone with Littlefucker willingly, unlike when I had offered her the same?_ _He_ is _easier to look upon, after all_. And it’s unlikely the girl knew about the part Lord Baelish played in her father’s demise.

“Alayne!” cried Myranda Royce, from a carved stone bench beneath a beech tree, where she was seated between Ossifer Lipps and Uther Shett. She looked in dire need of saving. After exchanging some pleasantries and smiles, Alayne successfully freed her friend from the dull hedge knights. Arm-in-arm the girls went past him without taking any notice of his presence – not even as he sheathed his sword and followed them within earshot.

“Do you really know where my father is?” Alayne whispered to her friend.

“Of course not. Walk faster, my new suitors may be following.” the Royce girl quickened her pace and pulled her friend along. “Ossifer Lipps is the dullest knight in the Vale, but Uther Shett aspires to his laurels. I am praying they fight a duel for my hand, and kill each other.”

Byron chuckled at that. _I have to be cautious around that one. Her japes are not half bad._

Alayne giggled. “Surely Lord Nestor would not seriously entertain a suit from such men.”

“Oh, he might. My lord father is annoyed with me for killing my last husband and putting him to all this trouble.”

“It was not your fault he died.”

“There was no one else in the bed that I recall.”

He had heard that the Royce girl was a widow, because her late husband had died on top of her while fucking her. _That’s what you get from wedding a young girl to an old fart. But not a bad death, indeed._

“Those Sistermen who came in yesterday were gallant,” the little bird was deliberately trying to change the subject. “If you don’t like Ser Ossifer or Ser Uther, marry one of them instead. I thought the youngest one was very handsome.”

“The one in the sealskin cloak?” Myranda Royce said, sounding incredulous.

“One of his brothers, then.”

“They’re from the Sisters. Did you ever know a Sisterman who could joust? They clean their swords with codfish oil and wash in tubs of cold seawater.”

“Well,” Alayne said, “at least they’re clean.”

“Some of them have webs between their toes. I’d sooner marry Lord Petyr. Then I’d be your mother. How little is his finger, I ask you?”

A question she didn’t tire bringing up. Just as she liked to remind Alayne that she had once hoped to have Harrold Hardyng for herself. The would-be knight would have probably lasted longer than her late husband – but she looked like a girl of great appetite, so you’d never know for sure. To her misfortune Littlefinger had already interfered, and thus, destroyed her hopes.

The upcoming tourney had lured all kinds of contenders out of their holes onto the yard of the Gates of the Moon. All those knights, squires, and hedge knights were putting up a show to get a place in the sickly little lord’s Brotherhood of the Winged Knights. A mummer’s farce nevertheless. Most likely, the victors had already been decided on. That puffed-up Harrold Hardyng, for once, was being courted so intensely by Bronze Yohn Royce and Littlefinger you would think he was a maiden with a treasure buried in her cunt. _Will he be more to Alayne’s liking than me … Ser Byron?_

Why would the little bird even agree to this farce of a betrothal? Alayne might be the unwed maiden daughter of Littlefinger’s, but Sansa Stark was a woman wedded and most likely bedded. _The Imp will have seen to that._ No matter how much she despised her lord husband, a consummated marriage was not easily set aside. And for all they had heard so far, the dwarf was still alive and kicking, much to Cersei’s disdain. Also, Sansa was a fugitive wanted by the crown for regicide. Who would risk their neck for her? _Me …That much I owe her. I can keep you safe, little bird._

The Royce girl stopped to gaze across the yard at the knights at their practice. “Now there’s the very sort of husband I need.”

Lyn Corbray and Ser Owen were fighting with blunted swords. Corbray wasn’t one to go against, especially if you were a gnat like Ser Owen. As expected, the fight didn’t take long. With a smack on the head, Lyn Corbray ended the match. Luckily for Ser Owen, they had only used blunted swords or his brains would have been in the dirt, instead of a few drops of blood.

“Do you think if I asked nicely Ser Lyn would kill my suitors for me?” Myranda Royce asked.

“He might, for a plump bag of gold,” Alayne answered. Ser Lyn Corbray was forever desperately short of coin, as rumors had it in the Vale.

“Alas, all I have is a plump pair of teats. Though with Ser Lyn, a plump sausage under my skirts would serve me better,” the Royce girl put in.

 _Say that to his face, and you won’t have the trouble of finding another husband thereafter,_ though Byron did like the girl’s humor.

Alayne’s giggle drew Corbray’s attention. He handed his shield to his squire, removed his helm and quilted coif.

“Ladies.”

“Well struck, Ser Lyn,” Alayne called out. “Though I fear you’ve knocked poor Ser Owen insensible.”

Corbray glanced back to where his foe was being helped from the yard by his squire. “He had no sense to start with, or he should not have tried me.”

“My lord father tells me your brother’s new wife is with child.” Alayne said with a sweet smile.

 _The little bird has grown herself teeth._ Though, this was the wrong person to try them out on.

Corbray gave her a dark look. “Lyonel sends his regrets. He remains at Heart’s Home with his peddler’s daughter, watching her belly swell as if he were the first man who ever got a wench pregnant.”

“We are all praying that the Mother grants Lady Corbray an easy labor and a healthy child,” said Myranda Royce.

Alayne seemed unable to realize she had crossed the line by far, and said smilingly, “My father is always pleased to be of service to one of Lord Robert’s leal bannermen. I’m sure he would be most delighted to help broker a marriage for you as well, Ser Lyn.”

“How kind of him.” Corbray’s lips drew back in something that might have been meant as a smile, though it made Byron wary. His hand settled on the pommel of his sword. “But what need have I for heirs when I am landless and like to remain so, thanks to our Lord Protector? No. Tell your lord father I need none of his brood mares.”

 _Now there’s someone dripping venom like the snake he is._ Byron took a step forward, hand gripping the pommel of his sword. Alayne turned away abruptly and left the knight behind. _Better stay away from that one._ During her attempt to flee the scene, she bumped into the Mad Mouse, who had also been observing the situation closely. _Ready to intervene without shedding blood – unlike me._ Byron moved farther away.

“My lady. My pardons if I took you unawares.” the Mad Mouse said.

“The fault was mine. I did not see you standing there.”

“We mice are quiet creatures.” Ser Shadrich was so short that Byron had taken him for a squire when he had first made his acquaintance. But one look up close and one could see his face belonged to a much older man. Still, even short-built Myranda Royce overtopped him.

“Will you be seeking wings?” the Royce girl said.

“A mouse with wings would be a silly sight.”

“Perhaps you will try the melee instead?” Alayne suggested.

“A good melee is all a hedge knight can hope for, unless he stumbles on a bag of dragons. And that’s not likely, is it?”

“I suppose not. But now you must excuse us, ser, we need to find my lord father.” Alayne said.

Horns sounded from atop the wall. “Too late," Myranda said. “They’re here. We shall need to do the honors by ourselves. Last one to the gate must marry Uther Shett.”

That sent the girls racing to the gate with their skirts flapping in the wind, most unladylike. Byron could still hear their laughter even after he had lost sight of them. They would sure make a great sight when greeting the Waynwards and the precious Heir. _Have I ever heard her laughing before?_

Byron followed in moderate pace as to not betray his cover. Therefore, he missed most of the conversation that must have taken place during the greeting courtesies. When he finally arrived at the gate, he found Alayne addressing Harrold Hardyng.

“You are in the Falcon Tower, Ser Harrold,” the girl said. “If it please you, I will show you to your chambers myself.” She smiled for him, sweetly.

Hardyng looked down at her coldly. “Why should it please me to be escorted anywhere by Littlefinger’s bastard?”

All three Waynwoods looked at him askance. “You are a guest here, Harry,” Lady Anya reminded him, in a frosty voice. “See that you remember that.”

Byron would have gladly beaten the notion into that arrogant arse. _If he knew just how low he was standing beneath her, he’d keep his mouth shut._

“As you wish, ser.” Alayne said. “And now if you will excuse me, Littlefinger’s bastard must find her lord father and let him know that you have come, so we can begin the tourney on the morrow.” _Brave girl._ Byron had come to notice that the little bird wore her courtesy like he once had worn the Hound’s mask.

When he watched her retreat, he couldn’t stop wondering why anyone in their right mind would have to be coaxed into marrying her. But then again … Why would Harrold Hardyng even consider marrying a baseborn girl from an up-jumped lordling like Littlefinger? A puffed-up squire he might be, but either way he was also going to be lord of the Eyrie, and that sooner than later. The boy Robert Arryn was sickly and getting worse with every day. _Does Hardyng know?_ Her claim and noble birth would be a good incentive – that much was clear. But if he knew, he was a great mummer, considering the public humiliation he had just given the girl. _He sure is smug._ It was an open secret that Ser Harrold already had a baseborn child and another one on the way from two different women. _Or is it Littlefinger he dislikes, while not taking offence in the girl?_ Might be Hardyng was just as brutally honest as he was arrogant. Something told Byron that the would-be lord of the Vale didn’t have it in him to play a mummer’s part – unlike Lord Baelish.

Byron slowly retreated from the scene at the gates to the chamber he shared with his companions. Might be Shadrich and Morgarth were awaiting his news there, or perhaps they had already left for the feast. It was to start shortly and Byron had yet to prepare himself for it. But no matter how hard he tried to focus on the the feast along with the plan they had come up with, his thoughts kept trailing off. He still couldn’t figure out Alayne’s and Hardyng’s involvement in this big farce, let alone Littlefinger’s intentions. _What is he hoping to gain from this union?_ His pace picked up. Once Hardyng had overtaken the Eyrie with his new lady wife, there was no place at court for him. The Vale lords weren’t keen on hiding their disdain of him. His scheming with Sansa Stark wouldn’t ever allow him to set foot near King’s Landing again – not so long Cersei had a say in that. If the Small Council found out about him spiriting Sansa away, it would revoke his ownership over Harrenhal and have him executed on the spot. Not that anyone with his wits about him would actually want the cursed castle. _This fucker sure is glib,_ Byron brooded _._ Even at court in King’s Landing Lord Baelish had been intent on showing none but a presentable mask as a means to obscure his real intents. It had become clearer than ever what a mischievous shit that one was when he had played Eddard Stark in the throne room – with no one having so much as an afterthought of what he was actually capable of.

More than once he had seen Littlefinger’s gaze linger a heartbeat too long on his oh-so precious daughter. His eyes finding all the inappropriate parts of her body to stare at. Always finding a pretense to have her kiss him or sit on his lap. His fists clenched. _He wants her_. According to his boasts in the capital, Baelish had deflowered the late Tully sisters. Was he now trying to get his hands on the young offspring? _I wouldn’t wonder if Harry the Prick turns up dead shortly after becoming the rightful lord of the Eyrie._ Either way, if someone deserved her even less than the Imp, it was Littlefinger. _He will never have her_ , his grim thoughts intensified _. I won’t fail her again_.

The feast proved to be everything the Lord Protector had boasted about. Sixty-four dishes were served, in honor of the sixty-four competitors who had come so far to contest for place in their little lord Robert’s Brotherhood of the Winged Knights. Byron spotted his companions in the back of the hall, sitting at one of the less crowded benches. He pushed his way through the growing masses of people and sat down hard on the bench next to Morgarth.

“Finally made it,” his burly companion greeted him. “How’d it go with the girl?” he whispered.

Byron moved in a little bit closer and answered with a low voice, “Rough start I’d say. Harrold Hardyng doesn’t hold back with his disdain for Littlefinger and his daughter, as predicted.”

“The Lord Protector won’t leave things at that,” Morgarth said.

“Surely not,” Shadrich added from across the table. “He has already instructed the girl to seduce Harry the Heir later. We are to keep an eye on her as usual, and follow her should she leave the hall with Harry.” He gave Byron a long look.

Byron tried to ignore the knots in his stomach. _Why does this little rat give me pretentious looks like that?_ He had long since stopped wondering how the Mad Mouse gathered his information. The man seemed to know everything.

“You think she can actually do it?” Morgarth asked.

Shadrich shrugged, “She is beautiful and he is known to have a taste for pretty girls. But I’m not sure that’s what the girl wants.”

Byron was grasping the cup with the thick beer with a strong hand. “He is a pretty and highborn knight, that might be enough to convince her.”

“I guess all we can do is observe and keep a keen eye on the girl.” Shadrich gave him one of those knowing smiles of his.

 _I’m still not sure if I can trust this one,_ Byron brooded. _But what other choices do I have?_ Some hedge knights took up the free places on the bench and interrupted further personal conversation. He took the chance to look around and take his surroundings in. _Like I used to do when I was still a Lannister dog_.

The hall was filled with people, noble and low-born, peasants and serving women going about their work. Drinks and foods filled up the room with various tempting scents. There were suckling pigs served up crackling with apples in their mouths, pike, trout and salmon, crabs, cod and herring, and also ducks, swans in almond milk, capons, and peacocks in their plumage. Three huge aurochs, too big to get through the kitchen doors, were roasted whole above firepits in the castle yard. The trestle tables were overflowing with loaves of hot bread, fresh-churned butter, leeks and carrots, roasted onions, parsnips, beets, turnips. There were massive wheels of cheese that were brought up from the vaults. But all that was topped by a lemon cake in the shape of the Giant’s Lance, twelve feet tall and adorned with an Eyrie made of sugar. Talk had it that the cake had required every lemon in the Vale. _Littlefinger sure isn’t holding back._ Though they were in lord Nestor’s halls, most did not question who the real benefactor was.

There were gifts as well, and they weren’t half bad either. Like each of the other competitors, Byron was to receive a cloak of cloth-of-silver and a lapis brooch in the shape of a pair of falcon’s wings. There were fine steel daggers that would be given to the fathers, brothers, and friends who had come to watch the competitors tilt. Their mothers, sisters, and ladies were to be gifted bolts of silk and Myrish lace.

“Would you like some wine, m’lord?” a serving woman distracted him from his observations. She leaned in, purposely brushing against his side with her big bosom.

“My cup is still full,” the wine was tempting enough but he had to keep his wits about him.

The wench leaned in even closer and whispered into his ear, “I’ll keep my chalice brimming with the sweetest wine for ya then, for when ya done.”

If she’d only known his real face, she’d never have come anywhere close to him. Byron clenched his cup harder. “I prefer my wine sour.”

“Oh, that I have too, m’lord,” she winked at him and left with her hips swaying.

 _When have I last had a woman?_ He took a deep gulp from his cup. The wench wasn’t that bad either. Her hair was long and dark and her bosom overflowing. She had a pretty enough face with freckles around her nose. _I have to stay focused._ His gaze wandered to the salt where Alayne was seated. The flames of the sconces on the wall above her shone in her hair. There were other pairs of eyes watching her, beside his own. _Might be the one or the other will start wondering why Littlefinger’s bastard is suddenly changing her hair color._

It didn’t take long for the first man to ask her for a dance. Ben Coldwater was the first to lead the lady Alayne on the dancing floor but by far the last. Shortly after came Andrew Tollett, and others were already lining up to take his place after. _She is up for a long night_

“We should make ourselves noticeable before the girl is too exhausted to accept us,” Shadrich put in with a smile. “Why don’t you go first, Byron?”

Byron stood up as an answer and walked right to where Alayne was standing after her dance with Tollett.

“My lady Alayne, you look very beautiful,” Byron said. She did look lovely, simple gown or not. Her eyes were shining brightly and her cheeks were already flushed from the dancing.

“Thank you, ser Byron,” she answered. “You look handsome yourself.”

 _Courteous and polite as ever_. Byron took her hand and led her to the floor. The girl was shorter than him, but that accounted for none. There were few people as tall as or even taller than him. _Gregor was …_ She was tall for a woman, and a graceful dancer.

Courteous as she was, she still seemed oblivious to his existence – unlike every other woman in the hall. Even the Royce girl was openly giving him looks that were more invitation than curiosity. _Does she ever really look at me?_

“Are you going to partake in the jousts on the morrow, or only in the melee like the sers Shadrich and Morgarth,” she asked.

“My lady can watch me joust on the morrow,” Byron answered.

“Are you good at it?”

“I have won the one or the other tourney. But jousting is a matter of luck too. Sometimes the best competitor wins; sometimes the man with the most to fight for does instead.”

“And what do you have to fight for, ser? Silver wings?” Alayne looked at him interested.

 _Your safety._ He looked at her intently. “I prefer gold dragons …”

Their dance had ended sooner than expected. Suddenly, Morgarth had taken over and Byron was back on the bench, juxtaposed to Shadrich. The serving wench from earlier was right next to him seconds after. “You must be thirsty now after that much dancing. Can I help you moisten your throat some, m’lord,” she purred at him.

“My throat is just fine,” Byron answered.

“If you’d prefer mead, m’lord, I have more than enough to give,” another serving girl put herself forward. She was younger than the other by the looks of it. Short but lean, with long braided hair the color of chestnut and a plain face.

“Bugger off, wenches,” one man at the table said. “The man got himself drunk on sweet lady Alayne. What would he want from peasants like you?”

The women left for the next table with sullen looks on their faces.

“I’d like to tumble that bastard girl around the floor myself,” the man continued. He was stout with a round waist and stooped shoulders. His eyes were droopy and his frisky beard showed sprinkles of grey.

“You better keep those thoughts to yourself, or her father will have your little finger cut off, so he can wear it around his neck,” Shadrich said with a smile.

That shut the man up, but another put in instead, “Something isn’t right with the girl. Her hair was chestnut brown when I first saw her a moon’s turn ago. Today it looks like dark copper with a touch of fire.”

“Aye,” third hedge knight said. “What woman in their right mind would dye their hair a common brown with a noble coloring like that?”

“Unless she has something to hide,” the ungainly man who had first spoken up had obviously regained his tongue. “Might be she was a secret love child he got on the late lady Lysa. Her hair had some red in it. And it was said, she had been all too eager to be wedded and bedded by Lord Baelish. Had they not known each other since long before?”

“Or maybe Littlefinger wanted to keep his daughter safe from louts like us until she was safely wed,” Shadrich tried to lighten up the talk. “Or it is just the lighting that makes her hair shine like so.” The Mad Mouse threw Byron a look. _We have to be quick or lose the girl._

Byron moved from the bench to a shadowy corner to better observe the hall and people. Littlefinger was sitting on the dais next to lord Robert and stealing a glance or two at his supposed daughter. Lady Anya was visibly arguing with her ward Harry. She was probably trying to get the prick to ask Alayne for a dance, since the up-jumped squire moved towards Alayne stiffly. The girl had danced with neigh every man in the hall; it would have been awry for her betrothed to not ask her too.

Byron was prepared to follow the both of them outside, as he had been instructed. But it was not necessary, since Alayne left Hardyng standing and went over to her friends Myranda Royce and Mya Stone. _That one is clearly late King Robert’s get._ The girls immediately started whispering to one another and giggling like there was no trouble in the world. By the looks of it, the Royce girl was teasing the little bird with some bawdy japes of hers, since Alayne was blushing and complaining meekly. He didn’t remember ever seeing her so happy and untroubled. She had definitely never laughed so cheerfully around him in King’s Landing. _If it weren’t for Littlefucker, I’d even consider leaving her here._

Byron moved closer to the girls, trying to keep himself as invisible as possible and stayed in the shadows at the wall next to them.

“No,” he heard Alayne call out feebly. “There really isn’t much to tell.”

“We told you too,” the buxom wench insisted. “And we can both keep secrets well.”

The little bird looked like she’d very much like to fly out of that situation. Both girls were staring at Alayne intensely.

“How big is Lord Baelish’s little finger now?” the Royce girl smirked devilishly. “You still haven’t told me that as well.”

“RANDA!” Alayne cried out. “How many times do I have to tell you? I don’t know, and I don’t _want_ to know.”

“I’ll find out for myself then and make sure to tease you with the details,” Myranda Royce said.

Alayne made a face at the thought but still laughed heartily along when the Royce girl made further bawdy japes. _The little bird has changed_ , Sandor thought. Who would have thought her interested in such profane matters? She had still been a girl then, but now she had clearly grown into a woman. His gaze caught the big swell of her bosom. _Small wonder she has interests of a woman too …_ Byron tried to push that thought aside. Somehow it was making him feel uncomfortable – almost as if his clothes were growing too tight.

“Once,” he heard Alayne confide in her friends. They went silent for a second, only to pursue her even more fiercely.

“Tell us everything,” they demanded. “Come on. We won’t tell anyone.”

“There was a man some time ago,” the little bird chirped quietly. “He was much older than me, strong and fierce. His kiss was cruel, but his touch was gentle.” She looked dreamily into the air as if still remembering. Only when she realized what she had said, did she blush so vehemently that steam seemed to rise from her beet-red head.

The girls had returned to teasing their companion, trying to ease more information from her lips. But Byron wasn’t listening anymore. He had turned away and started for the darkness of the room he shared with his companions. So long they stayed at the feast he would have some peace alone. What had he expected? The girl had been married to Tyrion fucking Lannister. Of course she had kissed a man before and gone way further than that even. He didn’t mind her not being untouched. _It’s not like she could have defended her maidenhead on her own_ , he grimaced. Nevertheless, it had startled him to hear her speak of intimate memories fondly like that. She had obviously _enjoyed_ that man’s advances. _Who was that buggering bastard?!_ The jealous rage was unbearable. Byron would have ripped his tunic if not for the people around him. Instead he grabbed a full flagon of wine standing on a table he was passing. _An older man_ , he thought on. _Could it be Littlefinger?_ No, he had seen how the little bird avoided him as much as possible. The kisses he demanded from her being more chaste than a septa’s cunt. Once he had even caught a glimpse of disgust in her usually carefully guarded expression. _She doesn’t like him one bit_ , he resumed. _But where else would she go._ He felt something clash into his back.

“What in the Seven?!” Some man looked up at him cursing loudly. “Are you going or not?”

“Shit! Did you lose your tongue along with your wits?!” The man continued.

At times like this, Byron almost missed Sandor Clegane's scarred face. For people seldom were so bold, when looking upon his face. Instead of an answer, he pushed through the crowd that had built up before him – apparently he had been standing beneath the door frame for a while without realizing – and moved into the torch-lit corridor. _Wine won’t give me answers_. He handed the flagon to a couple being intimately close in one of the dark corners. _Asking questions will_.


	2. Alayne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes off right after the released Alayne chapter. Our POV this time is Alayne/Sansa who gives us some more insight to the events around her. More importantly, we get to learn more about her inner thoughts on her way to maturity and first sexual experiences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Expect a lot of girl talk and female friendship, some Creepfinger, Sandor references, and Alayne/Sansa exploring her own sexuality.  
> Caution: some smutty content coming up lol.

The feast was splendid. Even after the dishes had been cleared away and the guests were slowly retreating back to their rooms, the magic hadn’t worn off for Alayne yet. Sweetrobin had been a good boy; the evening had passed without any of his usual shakes or fits. Maester Colemon had taken him to bed a while ago, so he would be rested for the tourney. She was still seated in the hall with Randa and Mya, talking, gossiping and laughing. There were times where she’d had a good friend like them. _Jeyne …_ The memories came unbidden. Jeyne and her in the kitchens eating lemon cakes freshly from the ovens, Jeyne and her trying to escape Bran and Arya who had ambushed them with snow balls, Jeyne who’d blushed whenever Robb had looked at her, Jeyne crying … _Oh, Jeyne._ _She would have liked it here with Randa and Mya._ Alayne had to push those thoughts aside, or more memories would flush over her. Memories of the family she once had – when she was still Sansa Stark of Winterfell. Now, she was only Alayne Stone of nothing, but at least she was safe for the time being.

“Alayne?” she heard Myranda Royce say. “Are you still with us?”

“Where else would I be?” Alayne smiled at both girls. “I’m just getting tired. It was a long day, and the tourney has yet to begin.”

Randa eyed her suspiciously. “Or might be you are already picturing yourself in Harry’s bed.”

“RANDA! Why do you always have to tease me so?”

“Why, so I was right? I sure wouldn’t mind a handsome man like him in my bed,” the Royce girl said with a smirk.

“I wasn’t … I didn’t think about him.”

“If not him, who then? I do hope it isn’t Mychel Redfort. That one has one a wench too many on him already.” She looked to Mya who stared back at her defiantly.

Alayne suddenly understood. _The straw in her hair this morning._ “Oh, Mya,” she said, “he has wed another.”

“But he loves _me_ ,” the defiance on the girl’s face broke.

“He dishonored you by taking your maidenhead and not wedding you after,” Myranda said. “Now he continues to use you for his basic needs whenever his lady wife isn’t around. Way to show one’s _love_ for someone.”

“You don’t know him!”

“Nor do I care to,” Randa shot back. “It’s not him I’m worried about, he has his wife and knighthood and lands. But what about you, Mya?”

“And what about you?” Mya wasn’t going to give in anytime soon by the looks of it. “You spread your legs for every man you like. I only do it for Mychel.”

“I did my duty, was wedded and bedded, lost my lord husband without getting with child … I’m soiled goods, according to my father. I might as well make the best of it before he marries me off to some old man again.”

“And Randa was born on the right side of the blanket, unlike us,” Alayne added.

Mya’s shoulders dropped and the bastard girl suddenly looked close to tears. Alayne took her hand in hers and said, “All he could ever give you is another bastard for this world.”

“But who would have me now?” Tears rolled down her face. “A soiled and dishonored bastard girl, with nothing but her mules.” Alayne wondered what Mya would think if she told her who her father was. But how could a baseborn girl from Gulltown know such things. And what comfort could it ever give Mya to know that her father would have had the power to ensure she had a good life but didn’t use it. _He is gone, too._

“Your maidenhead is not all you have to give, even if men would want you to believe so,” Randa said, taking Mya’s free hand. “It becomes so much better without that burden to worry about, anyways”

“And I know for a certain that you have at least one suitor,” Alayne squeezed her companions hand.

Mya looked at her with big eyes. “Who?” she asked.

“Lothor Brune,” Alayne said.

“Lothor Brune?” Mya sounded incredulous. “He is old and I don’t know him.”

“Nor will you ever if you keep on sulking here thinking about when to next let Redfort tumble you,” Randa said.

“Does he know?” the bastard girl asked.

“Who doesn’t,” Myranda answered.

Alayne gave the Royce girl a chiding look. “Yes, and still,” she told Mya. “He wants you for yourself.”

Mya looked confused, so Alayne continued, “He might seem gruff from the outside but he is brave, gentle, and strong.”

Some ruckus that was caused by a group of men laughing loudly a few tables before them made them look up. In the midst of them was Mychel Redfort with a young woman on his lap.

Mya suddenly pulled her hands free and dropped her gaze.

“Son of a bitch,” Randa was dripping venom.       

Another knight who was oblivious to the pain of the ones he had sworn to protect – a pain he had caused himself, in this case. _This is not how it’s supposed to be._ Alayne looked around, turning her head first this way then that way, until she found the very person she was looking for.

“Ser Lothor,” she called out loudly enough for him to hear her. He was seated at one of the benches behind their own in the very rear of the hall. There wasn’t much company left for him other than the old hound. The knight stood up immediately and hurried with long and strong strides to their bench.

“Greetings, my ladies,” he said with a smile. His eyes lingered on Mya for a while before he looked back to Alayne. “How can I be of use to you, my lady?”

“I was wondering if you would be so kind as to escort my friend Mya back. She is unwell.”

His gaze shot back to Mya. _He is truly worried about her,_ the thought comforted Alayne. 

“Of course,” he said. “Lady Mya, may I?”

Mya looked at her friends first, but then stood up and took the offered arm. “Thank you, ser.” Shortly after, they were gone.

Randa yawned loudly. “If you will excuse me too, I have to go before I get too tired for the jousting that awaits me.”

Alayne was confused. “There is still enough time before the tourney starts on the morrow.”

“I want to find whether Sistermen are better at a different kind of jousting,” Randa gave her a wicked smile.

“Oh. And which one of them is the luckily competitor?”

“Why choose?”

“Gods be good, Randa! You truly are something else,” Alayne had to smile.

“Me? What about you?” Myranda asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Who is it going to be for you? Harry or Byron the Beautiful? Or both, perhaps?”

“Why would you mention Ser Byron?”

“I’d let him tumble me good and plenty if it were me. Might even sit on his pretty face and give him a good taste. Alas, I’m afraid the beautiful ser only has eyes for you, Alayne,” with that and a wink the Royce girl left her friend behind.

_She is only teasing me._ The bastard girl Alayne might have given in to her lesser needs but she was not her, not truly. But now that Randa had brought it up, Ser Byron did seem to be all around her. The other day he had suddenly been in her way, looming over her like a huge, dark shadow. She had crushed into him but had caught her by the arm and steadied her immediately. There was something familiar about him. She didn’t recall ever seeing his face before but his scent, his movements and his tall and broad frame reminded of her of someone. _His face is too handsome, though._ Small wonder Randa called him Byron the Beautiful. _But Joffrey had been handsome too._ Unlike Joffrey, Byron was gallant and very courteous. He did know his manners. _Knights are all liars_ , a raspy voice reminded her. _Maybe not all knights ..._ Lothor Brune was a good man and hopefully a true friend. At least she considered him one, even if he was her father’s man. Harry Hardyng had also proven himself to be rather straightforward and honest. _He didn’t lie about his bastards._ But he hadn’t seemed contrite about the matter, either. She was no fool and knew what that meant if she was to truly become his lady wife. _Could I ever love him?_ Alayne wondered if Harry would even choose her to begin with. She had refused to give him her favor to wear in the tourney. _Who will I give it to instead?_ It had to be some gallant knight with prowess to pique Harry’s interest if she wanted to win him over after all.

Without her friends the feast had grown rather dull. She lifted herself from the bench and turned towards the door to take her leave. But her father came up to her and hugged her before she could go far.

“Alayne, you look most beautiful,” he said the words to her bosom mostly. Of late, his gaze often lingered there. The thought made her uncomfortable, although she realized it might only be due to his height.

“Thank you, father. You look splendid too,” she said looking down to him. He was wearing a plum velvet doublet and matching breeches that ended in high black leather boots. An intricate silver clasp fashioned after a mockingbird fastened his cloth-of-gold cloak.

 “How did things go with Harry, my sweetling?” he asked with one of those smiles that never reached his eyes.

“I made him smile.”

“Of course, you did,” he stroked her cheek. “But you didn’t leave for fresh air with him, like I told you to.” It wasn’t a question, Alayne realized.

“I had to arouse his interest first. He wasn’t as willing as you had predicted.”

“Who would have thought the boy to be so relentless? Or maybe I underestimated Bronze Yohn and his influence on him,” his eyes glazed over her face and wandered once again to her bosom. “But don’t worry, come the morrow, he’ll be melted wax in your hands. The prospect of entering the lists with your favor fluttering from his lance would push any man further to you.”

Alayne felt despair grasp her heart. _He can’t have it. I promised to give it to another, and it won’t do to go back on my word._ “Yes, father.”

He pulled her closer then and stroked her hair softly. She could smell the wine on his breath when he moved his face closer to hers.

“Pray excuse me, father,” she released herself cautiously from his grasp. “All the dancing and wine has tired me, and I have to be well rested on the morrow.”

He looked at her with a smirk and eyes almost black, “What a dutiful daughter I have. Now give your lord father a good night’s kiss.”

She leaned down to him and gave him a short and chaste kiss.

“You better put in some more passion with Harry, or he’ll wonder as to why he should marry a septa,” he said.

“Yes, father,” she excused herself again and left for the safety of her chamber.

On her way out, she almost tripped on an empty flagon on the floor. That drew her attention to the noises coming from a dark corner right beside the door.

“Uuuuhn.”

“Yes, more.”

When she stepped closer towards the ruckus she could make out the behind of a man who was pumping away at a woman in front of him. His breeches were pooling around his ankles and moved with every thrust of his hips. He was breathing heavily and grunting unintelligible words. The woman had pulled up her skirts around her waist and steadied herself with one hand against the wall. She was receiving every thrust with an arched back and open legs. Her wetness was dripping down her thighs. Alayne knew what happened in a marriage bed but she had never _seen_ it before, especially not so up-close. The man’s thrusts grew faster and harder, and his grunts louder and rougher. The woman was frantically rubbing her free hand somewhere between her legs and mewling like she was about to cry. Only seconds after, the man spilt himself inside of his companion with one last loud moan.

“Ye done already,” the woman asked. “I was almost there.”

The man pushed her aside, “Shut up wench!”

Alayne hurried away quietly before they could see her. _Is Randa doing the same thing at the moment, and enjoying it?_ Alayne had never been so bold, though, she had kissed the Hound back when she was still Sansa Stark. She wondered what Mya and Randa would say about that if she ever revealed the identity of the man she had shared the kiss with to them. _But I can’t trust them, can I?_

The encounter with the coupling strangers stirred a fire that had been burning low for a while now and that now blazed wild and hot. That and the haunting memories of the Hound and his cruel lips … Talking about the kiss aloud had made her realize even more just how much she missed Sandor Clegane. He had already crept into her dreams, being a constant companion during the night. Of late, the dreams had become more and more unsettling. She had woken up with a heaving chest, beads of sweat nestling on her forehead and pooling around her breasts, and a hot dampness between her legs more than once. The first time she had felt that weird sensation down below she had feared her moon blood had come early. When her hand hadn’t come up bloody but instead smeared with a clear substance, she had worried she might have wet the bed. But soon she had come to realize the wetness of her lady parts was related to the dreams of him entering her wedding bed and … her. Last night’s dream had been so intense, she’d woken with her woman’s place throbbing so much her hand had moved on its own to answer to its needs. Randa had told her about how she often touched herself because she needed release, or whenever she just wanted to feel good.

“Men do have their value in bed,” she remembered her friend saying. “There is nothing like a good hard cock pounding its way into you to blaze a fire within you. But men seldom care about a woman’s pleasure. I _do_ care about my pleasure and I know how to handle the fire, unlike most men. I know when to feed it and how to quench it. You should try. Your maidenhead won’t be harmed by taking matters into your own hands.”

The topic had made Alayne feel uneasy, though she had listened closely. _She was right about that_ , she reminisced. A pity her handmaid had interrupted her explorations when she had entered to help her dress in the morning. The ache had lingered the whole day, and all the talk about coupling and kissing had stirred it again.

She almost ran upstairs to her chambers. Once safely inside, she barred the door and closed the shutters. Her handmaid had fed the fire and lighted candles, so that the room was brightly lit around her bed. The rest of the room was in dim darkness. She liked how cozy it looked like that.

Alayne opened the lacings of her gown quickly, hardly able to contain the giddy feeling that the thought of touching herself brought up. Her dress was soon pooling around her feet. She could feel the warmth of the hearth on her bottom, lightly pushing her towards the bed. Her eyes gazed the cedar chest with Sansa Stark’s precious summer silks. An idea formed in her mind, too tempting not to pursue. _It’s at the very bottom_ , she thought while eagerly reaching past the fabrics. _There …_ She pulled it out, sniffed at it and wrapped herself in the bloodstained cloak. _It was his, she remembered_ , while slowly placing herself on the bed. _This is all he left me._

Her thighs were already soaked in a hot and sticky wetness; her lady parts throbbing and longing for the overdue release. Her hands wandered over her body and she felt her breasts swaying from her ragged breathing. The first touch down there was almost timid but felt heavenly. Waves of pleasure and heat were shaking her up within with every stroke and circle she drew with her fingers. The wet of her lower lips was licking up her fingers, like an obedient dog longing for his master’s touch.

Alayne’s body was now moving on its own, the stained cloak caressing her from beneath. Her hips thrusted against her fingers, while her left hand caressed and pinched her breasts and nipples. Her back was soon arching and releasing rhythmically. Open-mouthed, saliva glistened on Alayne’s lips from the licking of her tongue. She had to take care not to wake the whole castle since her breathing had become loud moaning.

She didn’t know how much time had passed. It could have been an hour, or just two minutes. Still, her release caught her unawares. The pleasure had been building up so long, she hadn’t imagined the edge had been this close all along. Now she was over it, and falling or flying; she didn’t care, nor did it matter.

The waves of her pleasure had started to recede slowly, although the throbbing still lingered. She hadn’t expected her release to feel so divine. _Now I’m almost as blasphemous as the Hound_ , she giggled. _What would he think of me now? Am I still a proper lady?_

All of a sudden, Alayne felt very tired. She wrapped herself tighter into the cloak and crawled deep under her blankets and furs. The last thing she felt before falling into an exhausted sleep was tears running down her face.

In her dream a huge dark shadow lifted itself from the corner of her room. He had been sitting in her chair but now he was moving slowly towards her. She wasn’t afraid because she knew him and his intentions. _He would never hurt me._ When he got closer, she could see the ruin of his face lit by the fire in the hearth. His eyes were glistening and a wicked smile curled his lips upwards. Every step brought him closer to her.

“Have you missed me, little bird?” His voice was a deep rasp that sent shivers down her spine. “Better don’t lie to me, I’ll know anyways.”

Suddenly, he was on top of her, naked as his name day. She could feel his course hair on her smooth skin and his massive weight pressing her further into the bed. He settled on his left lower arm and lifted her chin with his free hand. Then he pressed his lips on hers and kissed her. She could feel his tongue explore her lips and mouth, his hand caressing her face, and his manhood rubbing against the wetness of her lady parts. He was soon kissing and sucking her nipples touching her with his rough fingers down below. The feeling was even better than what she had managed before on her own. She felt weightless and free and suddenly she was … flying.

She could feel the cold wind in her feathers and the current of air flow around her. When she looked down, she saw the yard of the Gates of the Moon that lay still, awaiting the tourney on the morrow. There was a huge dark shadow coming out of the castle, so she turned towards him curiously. _Is that Ser Lothor?_ The old hound was with him. When she sat down on a branch of one of the few trees in the yard, she realized it was Ser Byron. _What is he doing here this late at night?_ He sat down on the bench right beneath the tree she had chosen. The old hound jumped onto his lap and licked his face. She moved closer, trying to be as quiet as possible but he still turned his face up towards the tree. Although Byron looked right at her, he didn’t seem to notice her. _He looks sad._

“Oh little bird, what am I supposed to do?” he asked while petting the dog.

_So he did see me …_ She spread her wings and landed on the bench beside him. He looked at her again in surprise. Something in her wanted to reach out to him and comfort him, but when he reached out for her instead she took off frightened. After that, the Vale was right below her, the moon shining bright in the dark open sky. She had never felt so free before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this chapter. I would love to hear your thoughts about it in the comments below!


	3. Byron

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last thing we’ve heard of Byron/Sandor was that he was going to ask some questions. But who was he going to confront? And did he get the answers he needed?  
> Prepare for a lot of Sandor angst...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really struggled with this chapter and I’m still not sure it came out the way I wanted it to. But I hope you’ll enjoy it.
> 
> Also, nod to @Blue_Lemons' fic Bones and Rubies and that brilliant idea about how Shadrich/HR might work Sandor's glamor.

“Bloody buggering hells,” Byron sat down with a thump. The big bed squeaked loudly from his weight. _What did I just see?_ He felt like in a dream, though he couldn’t say if a good one or a nightmare. Luckily, Morgarth and the Mad Mouse hadn’t returned yet, so he had the chamber for himself.

He stood up again, got himself the flagon of water standing on the only table, and drank directly from it. Water ran down his chin, dribbling onto the floor. Once the flagon was back on the table, he started pacing the dark room that was only lit by moonlight, while rubbing away the wetness on his face with the back of his hand.

The images were still alive in his head – images of the girl fully naked on the bed, playing with herself, her big teats wiggling seductively with nipples pink and swollen from the teasing she had given them. At one point she had opened up her legs so much, he could see _everything_. The light of the candles and hearth had set her red hair ablaze and shone on her wet lips like glazing on a cake. _Gods, she was dripping_! He sat on the chair beside the bed and stroked through his hair.

After leaving the feast early, his legs had swiftly guided him to Alayne’s bedchamber. It had been easy to slip in unnoticed since the door had been without guard and unlocked. Alayne Stone was supposedly a bastard girl, so it would raise suspicion to have her well-guarded. Still, the thought of her being unprotected brought up unwanted feelings.

Alayne’s room was big and comfortable enough, without being visibly luxurious. It had a hearth with a big fire burning within. Candles had been placed near the spacious bed and the table near the window. The opened shutters allowed a steady flow of white moonlight into the room. It had been apparent that the little bird liked to keep things neat, for everything had been in orderly array and the scent around him had attested to fresh linen and a flowery perfume.

He had chosen to seat himself in the big chair in the right corner of the chamber. No light from either moon or fire touched that part of the room which had helped to conceal him in perfect darkness. Everything else had been right before him, unobstructed by obstacles. But alas, Alayne had taken longer than expected to return to her chamber and he had become too comfortable in the chair.

“The glamor is feeding off of your energy and will eventually take its toll on you,” he remembered the Mad Mouse warning him. But it wasn’t the spell that wore him out the most. Ever since he had left King’s Landing, sleep didn’t come easy at night; and when it finally did, his dreams woke him up soon after. _Gentle Mother, font of mercy … I shouldn’t have fucking fallen asleep._

Byron only ever realized Alayne had come back after the girl had already stripped down to her name-day’s gown. At first, he had taken it all for a dream, and before he could have processed what was going on, she had eagerly dug through a pile of garments in a wooden chest, come up with a ragged piece of cloth and wrapped herself in it. He couldn’t make out the patterns on it, though. Somehow his eyes hadn’t been able to linger on that shabby thing for long. _I should have just risked scaring her to death_. But after that, everything had gone so fast.

He hadn’t foreseen this particular turn of events when he had decided to confront the little bird in her bedchamber. _I’m tired of these buggering lies and tricks, but alas, I didn’t think this through._ Apparently, you can’t teach an old dog new tricks, as his father liked to say _._ After all that happened the last time he had surprised the little bird in her chamber, one might have assumed he’d know better than to repeat old mistakes. _My stupidity might have cost us everything, and this time there is no fire or wine to blame._

Tired and weary, Byron heaved himself out of the chair and walked towards the table again. The flagon of water was empty. _I need some damn wine,_ he grimaced. The room had grown stuffy, so he went over to the window and opened it to let the cold night air flood the chamber. Still, he felt like his clothes were suffocating him.

After almost tearing off his tunic he sat back down on the bed. _Who was she thinking about?_ Unbidden thoughts kept haunting him. _Was that her lover’s cloak?_ He realized the dark patterns on it might have been a house sigil. _Should have had a closer look at that ragged thing._ _Probably that arrogant arse Hardyng’s_. The little bird did have a taste for pretty boys, and that much Harry Hardyng was – a comely face, and lands, and titles. Byron didn’t want to think about whether or not the heir to the Eyrie had already had a taste of Alayne’s lands. _What in the seven hells did I expect?_ He didn’t have any hope that the girl would sing with joy at the sight of him and willingly run away with him. _Not after all I’ve done to her._ He wasn’t even sure she was going to be willing to leave the Vale at all. Her family was gone and her home had been taken by the Boltons if what he’d heard was true. _I’ll have to tell Elder Brother and the Mad Mouse_ , he grimaced. _They’ve got the wrong one for this task_.

Byron still remembered the day the Mad Mouse had shown up on the Quiet Isle and told him about his findings for the first time. He had been digging a grave when Brother Narbert had suddenly appeared before him, “Elder Brother wants a word with you.”

At first glance, the gravedigger had mistaken the little man for a child with a shock of orange hair. But a closer look had revealed fine lines and a hardened face. By way of introduction, Elder Brother revealed that Ser Shadrich had found his way to the Quiet Isle without help. While it was indeed almost impossible for most to achieve that, the gravedigger had no patience for such talk.

“What do you want with me?”

“I have just told Elder Brother about the treasure I’m about to dig up.” Ser Shadrich said. “He told me you are exceptionally good at digging. Why, it would be a shame to waste your talent.”

“Bugger your treasure. Why would I help you?”

“For love.”

“Love?” The gravedigger snorted.

“Indeed, love of gold.”

“How about _you_ dig it up then and keep it all to yourself if you love gold so much.”

Shadrich eyed him interested. “The treasure is special, you know, but buried under dirt nonetheless. I might need someone to recognize it through all that, someone who knows it better than me.”

One look at Elder Brother and the gravedigger understood. “So your treasure is a beautiful highborn maid of three-and-ten with auburn hair?”

The little man gave him a sly smile, “That’s the very one.”

“You’re not the only one after her ransom.”

“Why, you wrong me. I’m one of the few who don’t care about that.”

“What else would you want with her?”

The Mad Mouse had looked sad, almost as if reminiscing painful memories. “Greywater Watch is loyal to House Stark. Ned was my friend … I failed him once, I won’t fail him again.”

“Greywater Watch? So you’re …”

“Ser Shadrich, The Mad Mouse, please. Do you want to take a chance? I believe she is in the Vale.” The little man watched him closely.

“But her aunt is dead. Why would she be there?” the gravedigger asked.

“Someone is hiding her there. The same man who spirited her away from King’s Landing. A wicked man that one.”

 _A wicked man?_ The thought had disquieted the gravedigger more than he could have ever admitted. “What man?”

“Why, you most certainly know him. Formerly a member of the small council, now Lord Protector of the Vale. He surely has risen high, hasn’t he?”

“Littlefinger?” the gravedigger grunted in disgust. “Why would you believe it to be him?”

“The Lord Protector brought along his natural daughter to the Vale. A daughter that had been hidden amongst the septas in Gulltown, or so he claims. Supposedly, he had no knowledge of her existence up until now. Interesting coincidence, don’t you think? One girl goes missing, another of roughly the same age shows up by his side.”

“It _could_ be a mere coincidence. How would you know for certain?” The gravedigger felt uneasy.

“The trees know,” Shadrich seemed to be talking to someone not in the room. “They showed me.”

“The trees?” The gravedigger turned to Elder Brother, incredulous.

“Ser Shadrich worships the old gods,” Elder Brother said with irritation in his voice.

“As do the Starks,” the crannogman said. “So long as there is a godswood, the old gods’ powers are inherent. The weirwood in King’s Landing showed me how Littlefinger met with a fool in the godswood and hired him to spirit the girl away. That is the very place Ser Dontos won Sansa’s trust.”

The gravedigger almost laughed out in protest, but then he remembered how Sansa had suddenly started praying to her ancestors’ gods nigh every day. _Could she have played her part well enough to fool me then?_ He had seen for himself how quickly the little bird had learned to keep her thoughts to herself and only chirp whatever was wanted of her.

“Would that I could trust you and your trees,” the gravedigger replied.

“You don’t have to,” Shadrich said. “It’s for certain the girl is missing. Many a people are looking for her. Might be she is hidden in the Vale, or not. Come with me and see for yourself. If it’s indeed Sansa Stark, she will be in dire need of friends.” After a short silence, he added, “Littlefinger will be in Gulltown in a fortnight. It is there I mean for us to win his trust, so he’ll take us along to the Vale.”

“I will accompany you,” Elder Brother suddenly put in, looking at his younger novice. “I owe you for the mistake I did with your helm.”

“And how am _I_ supposed to go looking for Sansa Stark when I’m wanted by the crown?” the gravedigger asked. “Not to forget that Littlefinger will most likely remember this face of mine.” The tall novice pulled the hood of his robes down and loosened the shawl around his face to reveal Sandor Clegane’s burn scars.

The crannogman had looked like a sly fox when he’d smiled. “I might have what it takes for that. Care to find out?”

Now here Byron was, with taut breeches that reminded him painfully of his baser bodily needs. _Should have fucked one of those serving wenches._ _At least they had seemed to be interested in me._ But then he remembered it was not him they wanted, not truly.

Back in King’s Landing the washerwomen had been surprisingly eager to have him, or so he had thought when he was still younger and more stupid. But he eventually came to realize, it was only his manhood and roughness they had wanted. _They would only have me from behind or with tightly closed eyes,_ Byron tasted bile in the back of his throat. As the broken man he was, he had tried whores instead, in hopes that they would abide to look at him, at least for good coin. And there had been the one or the other who at first had seemed to be unbothered, but eventually they all turned their backs on him. He preferred the honest whores, the ones who didn’t hide the disgust in their eyes, although he would have never forced himself on them.

 _Bugger them all, should I ever stoop so low as to need a glamor to fuck a wench!_ Byron touched the wristband around his left arm and felt a strange sensation pulsing through it. It was no more than a line of beaded rubies, bones, and weirwood but it did have a beautiful sheen to it.

“You must always keep your disguise intact,” he remembered the Mad Mouse saying. “A glamor is no true magic, more like shadows and a suggestion of what you want others to see. But it will fall apart before keen eyes.”

 _And who would want to see my ugly face?_ Sansa Stark had looked at him more than once back in King’s Landing. _And she touched my face, the scarred side even,_ he remembered with glistening eyes. Somehow, he was relieved that the little bird didn’t seem to take any interest in Byron. He already felt uncomfortable deceiving her day by day. _If we hurry, she’ll be safe soon and the lies will vanish – just like me._

But no matter how hard he tried to push them aside, the images of the little bird pleasing herself still crept back into Byron’s thoughts. Her seductive moans accompanied the vivid memories that were certainly going to haunt him for way longer that he could bargain for. _I wonder what her breasts would have felt like. Would she have wiggled under my touch or the lick of my tongue?_

“Fuck me bloody! What is she doing to me?” He opened his breeches and slid his hand down. But a sudden rumbling at the door informed him of the return of his companions and interrupted his venture.

“Here he is,” Shadrich said to a burly shadow that could only be Morgarth. “Did you abandon us just to sit here in the freezing dark? You could have at least lit some fire for us,” he directed at Byron. But Shadrich stepped to the hearth himself and started a fire with ease.

“Where have you been?” Morgarth asked him with a worried look.

“Here and there,” Byron answered. “I followed some hedge knight who had been talking about going to Littlefinger’s bastard. But that amounted to nothing. He was just a poor sap among this bunch of louts.”

“Another reason for us to move quicker if we want to be the ones to get her out of here,” Morgarth said. “People are talking and inquiring about her already.”

“Not just that,” Shadrich put in. “Littlefinger said we were to follow her and Harry outside should they have left the feast.”

 “You already told us so before,” Byron grunted.

Shadrich looked at him intently with his sly eyes, “I’m afraid, not all of it.”

Byron and Morgarth exchanged a confused look.

“We were supposed to follow them but wait until they would have been found in a precarious situation,” Shadrich continued, “with no excuses left as to what had occurred.”

The chamber fell silent.

“That way he could have forced the boy to marry Alayne within a fortnight,” Morgarth concluded finally. “Lady Waynwood would have made it possible, considering the amount of debts Littlefinger has bought up from her. This Lord Baelish sure knows no remorse when it comes to achieving his goals.”

Byron finally found his voice again, although it pained him to talk, “Why didn’t you tell us sooner?”

“That matter would have been one to handle delicately,” Shadrich said, not unkind.

“The girl is married already,” Byron said. “Or does he mean to have her color her hair until she dies?”

“Littlefinger will be aiming to have the first marriage set aside, I guess,” Shadrich answered.

Morgarth seemed aghast, “How would that be possible? A bond made before the gods is sacred and cannot be undone by men.”

“Rumor has it the first marriage was never consummated.” The Mad Mouse shrugged.

“Tsk. Rumor also has it the girl turned into a wolf, grew black leathery wings, and flew from the capitol. Cersei would never allow that to come to pass.” Byron was certain of that.

Shadrich nodded, “Cersei wouldn’t, nor any other Lannister for that matter. But another king might. There still are contenders for the Iron Throne left. I have a feeling Littlefinger is opting for one of them.”

The room fell silent again. This time it was for Shadrich to interrupt it. “Should the girl prove to be a maiden, setting her marriage aside will be the least of her sorrows. The matter of late King Joffrey’s death on the other hand ...”

“She didn’t do it,” Byron said immediately. Though, he did remember how she had almost pushed Joffrey down the rampart one time. _She is a wolf after all._ He had to suppress a smile.

“That’s why we need to gain her trust. So she can tell us what she knows. Is that not so?” Morgarth looked to Shadrich.

“Indeed,” the little man answered. “Her testimony is the key to her freedom.”

“That won’t be enough to free her,” Byron said.

There was no answer. Shadrich seemed to be somewhere else with his mind, as he often was. But eventually he said, “It might be everything for us, a means to put the parts together. But time is against us.”

“And what are we supposed to do?” Morgarth asked. “The girl is not reacting as hoped, not in the slightest. We’ve been around her for many a moon now, but we aren’t any closer to her.”

Shadrich glazed into the air as if it were full of answers. “She doesn’t know us, so why would she trust us. But maybe if she saw a familiar face …” He snapped out of his aimless stare and looked at Byron.

“No.” The tall man stood up and left the confinement of the room without another word.

His mind was restless, full with thoughts and questions he couldn’t really grasp. Byron moved through the castle like a shadow, dark and silent. He encountered only few people on his way out, and most of those were passed out drunk on the floor. The only one who looked up when he passed was Littlefinger’s old hound. Byron hunched down to give the dog a pat and smiled at it, despite himself.

“You like this?” The dog answered with a lick at Byron’s hand.

Suddenly old memories welled up and he remembered how his little sister had always beamed with joy every time one of his father’s bitches had whelped puppies. Serena had always come up with different games to play with them until they were old enough to be trained. She was so good at it that even the most stubborn hounds would heed her every command – a skill that not even their kennelmaster could call his own. One day her favorite dog had passed after being torn up by a boar during a hunt. Serena had howled so loudly alongside the other dogs, everyone had feared a wolf had come amongst them. When Sandor had said so much to his father, lord Clegane simply answered: “Wolves or hounds, it makes no matter. We all need a pack to thrive, and therefore we suffer the losses of our own severely.”

Byron stood up abruptly and turned towards the yard, the old hound right on his heels. The dog was not as energetic as it might have been once, but tried hard to keep up with Byron’s pace. _A dog is always loyal,_ Byron remembered with a sad smile.

When he got to a carved stone bench beneath a beech tree, Byron sat down exhausted. The old dog launched itself on Byron’s lap immediately with a heavy thump and licked his face. A rustling in the tree above made the hedge knight. A tiny owl was staring down at him with big yellow eyes. It seemed so close, yet it was way beyond his reach.

Byron could feel tears welling up in his eyes. “Oh little bird, what am I supposed to do?”

Suddenly the bird landed on the bench next to him, as if to answer his words. But when he carefully reached out to it, the owl took off frightened and left him behind. Apparently, he had a talent for scaring little birds, no matter his appearance. _I’ll have to ask Morgarth for dreamwine, or I’ll be remembered as the sleeping hedge knight from the morrow on._ Byron picked up the dozing hound in his arms and made for the warmth of the castle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up, the tourney! Expect the pace to pick up a little as the different players make their moves.


	4. Alayne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first day of the tourney has begun. Alayne tries her best to enjoy the splendor of it all, but fails to get a grip on her emotions. Will she finally realize that she isn't as isolated as she believes?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Loooong chapter ahead. There is plot development and plenty of Sansan feels :). Things are about to get intense in the Vale.

The dream still lingered in her mind. _Little bird_ , she heard his raspy voice say. Her handmaid had interrupted any further thoughts, though.

“Your lord father awaits you, m’lady. He wishes to break his fast with you before the tourney begins,” Gretchel informed her, then left to fetch hot water for her bath.

Alayne quickly took advantage of that moment and hid the bloody cloak in her cedar chest where it belonged, beneath the summer silks.

“Is the water warm enough, m’lady?” the serving girl asked after filling the wooden tub.

“Yes, it’s wonderful.” Gretchel was an obedient servant who worked well enough, so she took care to compliment her often. _Though, she is most likely spying on me on father’s behalf._ “You may take your leave now.”

Alayne scrubbed herself until she was clean and pink. When she got to her nether regions she blushed vehemently as she remembered her nightly adventure. _Did Gretchel see?_ she wondered. Surely, her explorations must have marked her somehow. _Don’t be silly!_ Alayne pushed the thoughts aside and continued to clean herself. After, she brushed her hair to remove all tangles. When she was done, her ringlets shone nicely and fell into the middle of her back. Her Tully coloring was showing more and more, and she liked that better. But there was not helping it so long she was Alayne Stone, a bastard girl with dark brown hair. _I need to remind father to get me some more Tyroshi dye_.

When she was sufficiently cleaned, Alayne climbed out of the tub and patted herself dry. She chose the modest gown of dark brown lambswool with leaves and vines embroidered around the bodice, sleeves, and hem in golden thread. The only concession to jewelry was a simple velvet ribbon in autumn gold that she artfully wove into her hair with a thick braid. _I might look a little drab in comparison with the other lords and ladies on a day like this, but it befits a bastard girl,_ she decided while inspecting herself in a silver plate.

On the way to her father’s solar, Alayne encountered the old hound lying on the steps. He raised his head at her approach and eagerly licked her fingers when she stretched out her hand to pat his head. She giggled delightfully.

“My lady looks most beautiful today,” a voice took her by surprise. When she looked up with a pounding heart, she saw Ser Byron standing right beside her. _Had he been standing there before?_ If so, she hadn’t noticed his presence until he had spoken up.

“That is kind of you to say, good ser,” she replied with a smile. “You look handsome yourself.”

He really did. His blonde hair fell straight to his shoulders, his gray woolen doublet over a white tunic and dark breeches matched in coloring, and his boots were black polished leather. With the cloth-of-silver cloak he was going to receive at the tourney, Ser Byron was surely going to make an impressive figure, for a hedge knight. Alayne noticed once again how much taller than her and largely built he was. _His face doesn’t have any scars_. _Might be he’s never fought a real battle in his life_.

“My lady is too kind,” he answered. “May I escort you to your father?” The surprise must have shown on her face, since he added, “He asked my companions and me to join him and his beautiful daughter to break our fast.”

Alayne raised an eyebrow at how he accentuated the word daughter. _Might be I’ve misheard._ “I would be most pleased, ser,” she said, taking the offered arm.

Somehow Alayne couldn’t shake the feeling of familiarity, so she took a quick glance at him. _I don’t know his face_ , _but I’ve only seen few men of his build._

“Are you eager for tourney to begin, ser?” she asked him after a moment of silence.

“Indeed, my lady.”

“So, you have found something to fight for?”

Ser Byron hesistated for a moment, then looked at her and said, “I have found _someone_.”

His gaze sent a shower of gooseflesh down her spine. Alayne could feel it upon her even before she looked up to meet his eyes. _They are blue like the sky, not gray_. Luckily, there was no time to continue the conversation, for they had already reached the door to her father’s solar.

“Thank you for your escort, ser,” she said, eyeing him suspiciously.

“It was my pleasure, lady Alayne.”

Her heart skipped a beat as she didn’t miss how he paused a little before saying her name. _He says it like he knows_ , she realized. _Did father tell him and his companions, or am I imagining things?_

They were being expected, as the table was already set with boiled eggs, cheese, fresh bread, churned butter, honey, dried fish, rashers of bacon, porridge and some sweet looking tarts.

“Good morrow, father, sers,” Alayne greeted merrily.

“Good morrow to you too, lady Alayne,” Ser Morgarth greeted, his nose as veined and bulbous as ever.

“My lady looks very bright-eyed,” Ser Shadrich added.

Alayne was still fascinated by Shadrich’s child-like stature. _Even Lord Petyr looks like a giant beside him._ “Thank you, ser. You are too kind.”

Her father stepped closer and took her from Ser Byron’s arm. “He is right, my love. You look beautiful. Come sit with us.”

Lord Baelish took his place at the head of the table and gave Alayne the seat to his right. Ser Morgarth was seated opposite to her father, while the other two looked right back to her from the other side of the table. Apparently, Ser Byron’s and her arrival had interrupted some important conversation that the men duly resumed.

“This is going to be a fateful day that will bring us great fortunes,” her father said. “But I’m not devout enough to wait upon the gods’ wills, so I shall take matters into my own hands. Therefor it’s good to have loyal men help me achieve certain matters.”

Ser Shadrich lifted his cup and said, “Everything has been taken care of accordingly. We are ready.”

“Very good,” the Lord Protector looked like a cat that had fallen into a pot of cream. “Alas, I’m afraid we’re boring my sweet daughter with our talk. Pardons, my child,” he said while patting her hand.

“Oh please, don’t mind me,” but she didn’t want to be pulled into her father’s scheming anymore than she already was, so she gladly took the bait to change the subject. “Today is a wonderful day and I’m looking forward to the tilts.”

“Yes, indeed it is,” Ser Morgarth said. “We’re lucky enough to be safe here in the Vale, untouched by the atrocities of the war without.”

Alayne looked to her father in confusion. “Is it that bad, father?”

He looked at her for a moment before he answered, “There are some disturbances here and there. Cersei has brought up quite a share of people against her. And there has been grievous news from Saltpans. It seems the Lannister Hound has freed himself from his leash and gone berserk. He burned down the town after pillaging and raping. One of the victims was a girl of three-and-ten. I fear, most of what he did is too atrocious to share with a sweet child like you.”

 “It can’t be the Hound!” she blurted out.

Everyone seemed surprised by her reaction, Ser Byron even more than her father.

“How would you know that?” Baelish asked, his eyes sparkling.

She felt all eyes in the room on her. _Of course, Alayne wouldn’t know that_.

“I just thought how stupid that would be,” she tried to look unbothered. “After all, is he not wanted by the crown after deserting at Blackwater Bay? At least some hedge knights said so much the other day. Raiding a town in that manner would only let everyone know where to look for him, or not?” _And he would never burn anything, or hurt a little girl,_ she added in her thoughts.

“My daughter is as clever as she is pretty,” the Lord Protector said with one of his mocking smiles. “The Hound most definitely is neither the one nor the other. Without his Lannister masters he is just as stupid as any other dog.”

 _You don’t know him,_ Alayne clenched her hands. She clearly remembered how Peter Baelish had bet against Sandor Clegane at the Tourney of the Hand in King’s Landing and lost.

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” Ser Shadrich put in, looking at her intently. “The Hound is done for. Last we heard from Saltpans, someone had ended him then and there.”

Her finger nails clawed deep into her palms and her breath caught in her throat. _Little bird_ , the raspy voice still rang in her head. _It can’t be._ Tears suddenly welled up in her eyes. _Not here_ , she swallowed hard. _Don’t let them see_.

Just as she was going to get up and pour wine for the men as a distraction, she realized the angry look on Ser Byron’s face. For a moment she thought she saw deep burns on the left side of his face and dark gray eyes growling at her father. _He came back for me and saved me from the mob._ Fragments of that day crept back into her memory without her leave. The Hound had hacked off one man’s arm when the crowd almost pulled her off her horse the day of Princess Myrcella’s departure to Dorne. Then he had taken over the horse and ridden her back to the Red Keep, all while hacking away at the mob. She had clung on to him with arms clutched hard around his waist, frightful of what might happen to her if she ever let go of him. _But now he won’t ever come back._

“My sweet daughter, could you please pour for us?” the Lord Protector brought her back to his solar.

“Yes, of course,” she replied meekly. When she looked back at the knight, his face looked just as handsome as before. _Am I losing my mind?_

“Are you unwell, my lady?” Ser Shadrich asked concerned.

“You do look like you could use a moment to refresh yourself, child,” her father agreed. “You wouldn’t want to miss the tourney, no?”

“No, father,” she was grateful to be able to be alone for a while. “I better retreat to my chamber for a little. It seems like the feast yesterday has worn me out more than expected.”

When Alayne made her way to the tourney grounds after a moment of respite, she had calmed the raging tide within her a little, but her tummy was still coiled tightly and she dared not think back on what she had heard earlier. _He’s truly gone,_ the mere thought hurt. _Mother, please have mercy and help him find peace at last._

Here and now, she had to keep her focus on the tourney and Harry. _Win him over, father said. Easier said than done, though._ She felt weary and would have rather gone back to her chamber and stayed under her covers than watch the tilts.

“Sandor, is my armor clean and ready,” someone shouted from afar.

A sudden feeling of hope made Alayne stop and look around. A young squire hurried past her, no older than ten-and-two or maybe three, with mouse brown hair, big ears and a long face with a pinched chin.

“Yes, Ser Donnel,” the boy shouted back while scurrying past the masses of people gathering for the tourney.

It almost felt as if her heart had frozen to ice and broken into thousand pieces. _Little bird_ …, the familiar voice crept back to her thoughts. _No, not now._ When she turned to move away, she bumped right into Ser Byron.

“Ah, the very knight I was looking for!”

He raised his eyebrows, interested. “Were you, now?”

She removed the ribbon from her hair and held it out to him with a smile. “My favor, if it please you, ser.”

“My lady is too kind,” he hesitated briefly but took the ribbon nonetheless, brushing her fingers with his ever so lightly, “I hope I can please you …”

“With your jousting?” she interrupted. “I do hope so, ser.”

Byron looked so dumbfounded, she almost laughed.

“My friend, looks like lady Alayne has your tongue tied in a knot,” Ser Shadrich said.

“Better his tongue than his lance, or not?” she teased further.

Ser Shadrich and Morgarth hooted out loudly, the latter clapping Ser Byron on the back with his huge hands that would have sent a lesser man stumbling.

The handsome hedge knight grinned at her widely, “I’ll take care to have my lance straight and ready for my lady.”

“We shall see,” she made sure to brush against his arm with her own as she left him standing. _Is he a foe or friend?_ she wondered. _I better keep him close._

On her way to the stands, Alayne walked into her friends Randa and Mya. The Royce girl grabbed her arm immediately and said, “Just imagine who gave Ser Lothor her favor.”

Alayne turned to Mya and asked with wide eyes, “Did you …?”

“Noooo!” Mya shook her head violently. “We talked, and he was very nice. When he asked for my favor, I told him that I didn’t have much to give. He mistook that for a rejection, so I kissed him.”

“Oh, Mya,” Alayne sighed with delight.

“Only on the cheek,” Mya added quickly. “He was happy nonetheless and promised to fight well for my sake.”

“So, he’s promised you a good jousting?” Randa teased as usual. “Now that is a prospect I’d look forward to.”

Alayne didn’t fail to notice the slight blush on Mya’s cheeks. _At least some good news._

“And what did my sweet Harry get from you, Alayne?” Randa asked with a hint of hurt in her eyes.

“Nothing.”

“What do you mean with nothing?” Randa asked, though both girls were obviously perplexed.

“I gave my favor to another. Ser Byron if you needs know his name.”

The Royce girl thought on it for a moment, then smirked. “Poor Harry. He has gotten himself such a gallant and handsome rival. That should do to prick his pride.”

“We shall see,” Alayne said. _I hope,_ she thought.

The viewing stands were already filling when they finally got to their places. High lords and ladies like Anya Waynwood, Nestor Royce, the lords Grafton and Belmore amongst other Vale lords, and of course her father had taken their seats.

“My sweet Alayne,” her father called out to her. “Come sit with us.”

As the Lord Protector’s daughter she was able to sit with the nobility, a privilege that would have otherwise been denied to her as a bastard. And since Randa had invited Mya to sit with them, she was also able to watch the tilts with them. Her father patted the seat to his left and bid her sit there.

“Where is Sweetrobin?” Alayne asked.

“Maester Colemon thought it best to prepare him for the tourney. They should be here shortly.”

“He must be excited,” Randa said. “After all, the stories of Artys Arryn and his Winged Knights are his favorites.” She smiled at Lord Petyr, most seductively, and in return got one of those smiles that only lit up his mouth.

Her father turned to her and whispered in her ear, “Now, have you given Harry your favor already?”

“No, father. I have given it to another. To pique his interest, like you said.”

Lord Baelish thought on that for a moment before he said, “Make sure to give it to him on the morrow then, as to not drive him further away. And entrance him at the feast later. But how could anyone ever resist your beauty.” With that he touched her face and let his gaze drop to her bosom. “You should have chosen a better gown, though. This one is drab and doesn’t bring out the color of your eyes much. Try another gown for the feast later.”

“Yes, father,” she answered meekly.

“Alaaaaayne,” Sweetrobin’s voice saved her from further advances. “Have you seen all the knights that have come?” He pulled his hand from Maester Colemon’s and ran towards her.

She grabbed him and pulled him onto her lap with ease. _Has he become even slimmer?_

“Oh, my Sweetrobin,” she kissed him on the cheek, “your tourney is most wonderful. I can’t wait for the tilts to commence.”

The boy’s face lit up when he said, “Four-and-sixty knights are competing. After this day there will be eight left, my future Brotherhood of the Winged Knights. On the morrow, those eight will compete for the victory of the tourney.” With a scowl he added, “I don’t want Cousin Harry to succeed. And Lyn Corbray too, he frightens me.”

“He frightens me too,” Alayne said, while smoothing his long thick hair. “But I trust the gods will favor the right men to be your guards.”

She was happy that Sweetrobin seemed so energetic and calm. But when she looked to Maester Colemon, she found him to look uncomfortable, with eyes fixed on his young lord. At second glance, she realized that the boy’s face did seem to be gaunter and paler than before. _I will to talk to the Maester later,_ she promised herself. _Now I have to focus and play the game like father wants me to._

Alayne tried to enjoy the splendor of it all, the banners and sigils, shining knights in their armor, beautiful ladies and much more. She saw Ben Coldwater talking to Wallace and Roland Waynwood, Mychel Redford was checking the strappings on his horse’s saddle, Lyn Corbray looked fearsome as usual, and she didn’t fail to notice how Lothor Brune often stole a glimpse of Mya. The stands were filled with people born high and low, smells of food enriched the air, and the sounds were buzzing. _The Hand’s Tourney was bigger and better, though,_ she reminisced. _I was Sansa Stark then, the Hand’s daughter, and eager and foolish._

The first tilts had already passed, but Alayne was too much in thought to care. Only when Ser Byron showed up on his heavy courser, did she look up to observe. His unadorned armor was plain steel the color of ash, and from his shoulders hung the cloth-of-silver cloak he had been given as a gift for competing. Ser Byron moved his horse with ease and an elegant ferocity, and unhorsed Uther Shett with the first tilt. When he passed close to the railings of her viewing stand, she saw her autumn gold ribbon fastened around the handle of his lance. _He fights with the same ferocity,_ Alayne observed. _If he had a helm in the shape of a hound, he’d pass as him. But he is gone. Forever lost, just like me._

“No, I don’t want him to pass. Not like that,” Sweetrobin’s cry pulled her back from her thoughts.

Apparently, Harry Hardyng had managed to pass his first tilt without even lifting his lance, as his opponent claimed to be too ill to climb his horse. Alayne wasn’t taken by surprise when his second competitor, Ser Owen, lost control over his horse on the way to the tourney ground, tumbled off its back and claimed to have hurt himself too much to contend. _Harry passes the first two rounds without one tilt. Father probably paid a high enough price for it._

As the hours passed, the competitors grew fewer and fewer with every round.

“Only a few more tilts left and we’ll know all the Winged Knights,” Sweetrobin said after squeezing himself back onto her lap. “Lothor Brune, Byron, Mychel Redfort, Wallace and Roland Waynwood, and Lyn Corbray have already earned their wings.” The last name only passed his lips reluctantly.

Alayne held the boy close to her and said, “Only two more are left.”

“I hope someone knocks Cousin Harry off his horse.”

His hopes proved vain, as Harry passed his third round without competing as well. His opponent had broken his arm in the tilts before and was thus unable to hold his lance.

“No! I don’t want him,” Sweetrobin cried out. “He didn’t earn his wings. It’s not fair!”

“This world is not always fair,” she smoothed his hair and planted a kiss upon his head. “But you and your Brotherhood of the Winged Knights will help make it a better and fairer place, won’t you?”

“Yes, Alayne.”

The next pairing was already racing towards each other with thundering hooves. Ben Coldwater broke his lance on Ossifer Lipps breastplate. The impact sent Ser Ossifer off his horse and to the ground. Sweetrobin broke into a sudden laughter at the spectacle of the defeated Ser Ossifer trying to lift himself from the dirt, but all Alayne could see were the images of her father, Lord Eddard Stark, in front of Baelor’s Sept, with legs jerking wildly and his blood trailing down the marble steps.

Sweetrobin seemed to sense her uneasiness, since he took her hand into his and said, “He only fell, Alayne. Nothing happened.”

“You are right, my Sweetrobin.” _He is growing into such a fine boy._

Even so, the world was in a swirl around her, her body was heated and she had difficulties to breathe. Alayne lifted Robert Arryn to the ground, stood up abruptly, and asked her father, “May I beg leave to retreat? I fear, the last days have exhausted me too much.”

“Dear child, are you unwell? Shall Maester Colemon come with you?” Lord Baelish asked with concern.

“Your too kind, father. All I need is a little rest. I will be back for the feast.” With a turn to little Robert she asked, “I know you’re strong enough to watch the rest without me. Will you tell me later who won?”

“Yes, I will,” he nodded bravely.

“Ser Byron, would you escort my daughter to her chamber?” her father asked the hedge knight as he was passing nearby.

“Of course, my lord.” The hedge knight offered Alayne his arm. When they were some steps away, he asked, “Are you unwell, my lady?”

“I’m just tired, is all.” _He probably thinks I can’t abide the violence, but how would he know I’ve seen men die before._

“Did my lady find pleasure in my jousting?” he asked.

Alayne’s throat was dry and tied, her japes and courtesies gone like feathers by the wind.

“Yes, ser,” was all she managed. “You did well.”

Her head was ringing with thousands of thoughts coming up at once and she was all too aware of the knight’s body beside her. She knew he was looking at her, but didn’t dare meet his gaze. Just when the silence had started to grow unbearable, the old dog came down the stairs towards them. Alayne let out a sigh of relief, grateful for the distraction. Only then did she realize she hadn’t been breathing. She went to her knees to greet the loyal hound, but it darted past her and leapt onto the hedge knight to her side. Byron caught the animal with ease and started patting it with a smile around his lips. The hound clearly enjoyed the affection.

“You seem to like dogs,” she heard herself say.

The knight set the animal aside and moved towards her. She had to look up to meet his eyes, when he said, “A hound will die for you, but never lie to you.”

The world started spinning around her again, but this time deep gray eyes and a burned face were in the center of it all. Then her knees went out under her and she fell into strong arms.

Alayne woke again in her bed, fully dressed in the gown she’d been wearing before. Her boots were on the floor to her right. At first glance she thought she was alone. _Was that another dream?_ she thought with a shiver. A sudden movement from the corner of her room caught her eye when some dark shadow moved forward. A burned face amidst a curtain of dark hair was staring at her.

“The little bird has woken,” the raspy voice was as familiar as ever, sending shivers down her spine.

Alayne’s heart missed several beats. Light-headed, she stood up and staggered towards him. “Is it really you?” she asked with a thin voice.

“Were you expecting someone else?”

Alayne ignored his teasing, “You are alive and here … How? And how did you change your appearance?” She cupped his cheeks. Her fingers ran along his scars, as if she wanted to be sure they were real. His scars were smoother than before. It seemed they had healed some more – not that the ruin on the left side of his face had become any easier to look upon – but still, it was him, Sandor Clegane.

“Some buggering glamor the Mad Mouse cast on me,” he said. “So, you’ve found yourself a new cage, little bird,” he continued before she could ask further questions. “Enjoying your life as a bastard?”

 _His eyes don’t frighten me anymore. The rage is gone_ , she thought surprised, _but he’s still barking._

“Being a bastard has its ups and downs,” she replied. “I certainly have more freedom than before.”

“Freedom of charming squires, you mean? And a new marriage prospect at hand. Grown tired of the Imp already?” he growled.

Alayne blushed. _So he knows._ “No, I … You mean Harrold Hardyng?”

Sandor Clegane raised his eyebrows mockingly, “Is there someone else I have overlooked?”

Alayne eyed him. _Is this a game to him?_ she thought, her anger flaring. “No, there isn’t. I am just surprised you are here to overlook things _at all_. But it is a pleasant surprise to see you alive and well … and here.”

“The little bird still sings pretty songs,” he ignored her advances to change the topic. “Have you not grown tired of them, yet?”

“As I see, you have not grown tired of barking at people,” she countered, “even those who only mean to pet you.”

He suddenly emerged from the seat, forcing her to get up with him. She had to look up to meet his gaze. _Don’t look away_ , she thought. _Don’t let him frighten you_.

“You have gotten yourself some guts, girl,” his grin was evil. “Or did the Imp’s loose mouth rub off on you?”

Alayne felt the blush creeping up her neck to her cheeks as she tried to answer, “I never …” All her words had left her.

“You never what? Wanted him as your lord husband?” he concluded. “That much is clear. What a cruel jape that the Lannisters thought it fit to give you a husband as twisted and ugly as him. Small wonder you’re so eager to get your hands on the pretty Vale prick.”

Alayne simply stared at him with glistening eyes.

“Were you thinking about how he is going to win the tourney with your favor fluttering from his lance, or was it _Ser_ Byron you were after?” His laugh sounded like a hellhound on the loose. “Probably touching your cunny at the very thought of a handsome fool pumping away at you.” 

SLAP! Her hand darted forwards and hit Sandor Clegane right in the face. The chamber was as silent as could be.

“You don’t get to talk to me like that,” Alayne almost yelled at him. “You _kissed_ me, and then you _left_ me. I had to make do with what I was given. I was genuinely happy to see you, but now I am questioning my sanity to have _ever_ cared about you. I am a woman grown. You can’t scare me away with your words like you used to. And I won’t take you insulting me to my face anymore.” Angry tears ran down her face.

Sandor Clegane seemed genuinely startled. His lips moved slowly, like they were trying to form a sentence, but couldn’t find the words.

“Lost your words?” She glared at him.

“When did I kiss you?” His voice was little more than a silent rasp. “Tell me.”

“You don’t remember,” it was not a question. The same thing had happened before when Ser Loras had forgotten about the red rose. _Now him_. Alayne just wanted to sink into the ground. She had _slapped_ him – him of all people. _Oh gods be good! I must truly be losing my mind_. Just as she was about to turn around and dart out of the room, he grabbed her wrist with gentle ease and pulled her close. She could feel the heat of his body.

“Little bird … Sansa, please tell me,” his eyes were glistening. “Please.”

Sandor Clegane had never spoken so gently to her, or said her name with so much care and struggle.

“The night of the Battle of the Blackwater,” she scarcely heard her own voice. Her shoulders slumped and she felt empty. The day had already left her tired and weary, and the feast had yet to begin.

He let go of her and sat down heavily, the chair creaked in protest. Sansa moved towards her cedar chest and pulled out the bloodied cloak for the second time in two days. After wrapping herself in it, she sat down on her bed and let the pain she felt spill out of her eyes.

“You took a song and a kiss from me that night,” she continued then, “and left me nothing but your bloody cloak. And now you don’t even remember. I truly am a stupid girl, am I not?”

She was sobbing uncontrollably when Sandor Clegane suddenly wrapped himself around her. He was sitting on the bed next to her, his arms and body shielding her from the world. _When have I last felt so safe_? They sat in their embrace, until Sansa had spilt all her tears.

“You kept that bloody thing?” he asked after a long silent embrace, his warm breath upon her hair.

When she loosened herself from him, she found Sandor’s face close to hers. He looked like he was caught in a dream. His big calloused hands cupped her face and he rubbed off her tears with his thumbs, ever so gently.

“It was all you left me,” she answered.

Sandor cleared his voice, “I would never forget a kiss shared with you,” his eyes shone with tears. “Sansa, the gods know I wanted to. Wanted to do worse even.” He removed his hands from her face and lowered his gaze.

“But you didn’t.” The realization made her tummy coil into thousand biting snakes.

“No, but I did worse enough,” tears ran down his cheeks. “I made you sing me a song with a bloody dagger at your throat. And that wasn’t even the first time I held a sharp blade to your neck.”

“You were not all awful, but showed me kindness too,” now it was for her to cup his cheek. “You kept me safe and helped me survive Joffrey, the angry mob. And now you came back for my sake?”

He nodded. “Aye, little bird. “Should’ve never left you in the first place.”

“If Littlefinger ever found out, you’d be killed on the spot. Should I really believe you would risk that much for me?”

“Do you remember my words?” he asked.

“A dog will die for you, but never lie to you.” She pulled back her hand from his cheek. “You also said you’d never hurt me, but you did. Or what was that before when you called me a slattern? You are hiding behind pretty words, just like everyone else!”

Sandor Clegane flinched as if she had hit him, although he hadn’t moved at all when she had really done so. His eyes glistened and he seemed to be thinking hard. Then suddenly he breathed out with a snarl. “I guess you’ve seen right through me then? You’ve had a glimpse of my coward self the night of the Blackwater.”

“That was the fire,” she interrupted. “And I understood.”

He smiled sadly. “I’m afraid, little bird, and it’s not just the fire. _You_ frighten me.” The last part was little more than a whisper.

Her eyes went wide. “ _I_ frighten _you_?” _Was he mocking her?_ “How could a little bird like me ever aspire to frighten a big man like you?”

He cupped her cheek lightly, “You’re stronger than you give yourself credit for. People like me have tried to snuff out your light, but here you are shining bright like a beacon of hope.”

“I’m not the girl you used to know,” it pained her to admit.

“No, you’re stronger and bolder than her … a woman grown, you said so yourself.”

“But why would I frighten you?”

“You remind me of how I used to be and what I have lost. Who I had aspired to become and what I have turned into. You are the very embodiment of my desires … and failings.”

Alayne didn’t know what to say to that but he continued before she could have thought of anything.

“I can’t hide behind what Gregor did to me any longer. You endured much the same and went through the one or the other fire too. But unlike me, you didn’t let it consume you. My efforts to rip your songs and dreams of chivalry from you luckily didn’t amount to anything, because you’re stronger than me.”

That was the one truth he had eagerly tried to keep from her, she realized. Alayne knew that he was just as vulnerable now as he had been as a boy dreaming of knighthood. But then the world had failed him and he had chosen to become the Hound. _Just, as I am Alayne now_. Concealing her identity and pretending to be Alayne Stone helped keep her safe, that much was true. But she also did it because being Sansa hurt. _He is alone, just like me_.

“You have me now,” she said gently. “I won’t fail you.”

She found herself back in his strong arms. “Little bird, I am truly sorry for what I did to you. I am here to keep my vows,” he said, “to keep you safe and right the wrongs, if you will have me. I pledge everything I have and am to you, and I bid you do as you please with me.”

“And I vow that you shall always have a place by my hearth and meat and mead by my table, and pledge to ask no service of you that might bring you into dishonor. I swear it by the old gods and the new.”

Sandor looked at her with glistening eyes for a while, then eventually nodded in approval.

“Would you give me a kiss then?” she asked looking up to him. She tried hard to withstand the gray pools of his eyes. Still, the flush stole back to her cheeks again. “To seal the vows.”

He immediately took her hand and planted a chaste kiss on it like she was the most delicate flower in the world.

“I meant a proper kiss.” She tried hard to hide her embarrassment. “You owe me one, remember? Or would that bring you into dishonor?”

A smirk curled his lips upwards, “Want me to be your Florian after all?”

“Are you a fool?” she teased.

Sandor threw his head back and laughed, “Seems like I am.”

She liked his smile. It made him look somewhat handsome, at least to her.

“Do you really want this … me?” he looked genuinely frightened.

“I do,” she smiled shyly. “Kiss me, Sandor.”

 


End file.
